


Idle Hours

by wrennette



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: after action, archiving old words, officers club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 14:53:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4791446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrennette/pseuds/wrennette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drink after the war. Eckloff and Patterson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Idle Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Archiving from LJ. Originally posted 2010.
> 
> Disclaimer: Generation Kill is the property of HBO and Evan Wright, neither of whom wrote this fic. Based on fictional portrayals as seen on HBO.
> 
> Original AN: Cleaning up my WIPs folder after a bit of a hiatus.

When he sees Eckloff next, he feels his face twist into something like disgust, except he's too worn out for disgust, so really it's something more like apathy. Eckloff seems to understand though, to get that Bryan would rip him a new one if he had the energy for that kind of anger. But they're all that worn down, and Bryan's burned his anger out on Craig, can only really be bothered to give Eckloff a sideways look. Three days later they're on their way home, and it's a little surreal to be showered and dressed in a fresh set of clothes, all their creases set and pressed.

At the officers club back at Pendleton, a week or so after they get back, he ends up next to Eckloff at the bar. They're still in the mess of debriefing, everything too close and yet strangely distant at once. Eckloff half turns as he sits though, gives him a look that Bryan can't quite decipher. If there's one thing he knows for certain about the Major, it's that Eckloff gives virtually nothing away. His emotions are quiet and still for the most part, buried from long practice as second in command. 

There's a part of Bryan that can appreciate that, but at the moment he's too weary to do much more than nod the barest of hellos and reach for his drink. They sit for a few hours like that, silently side by side, sipping at whiskey until the hard edges of the world melt a little bit, soften down to indefinite blurs they can navigate through. The next night plays out the same way, and after a week of running up parallel bar tabs, Bryan's grasp on the hard angry emotions formed in the theater of war are smeared with distance and drink. They can't be friends, there's chain of command to prevent that. But they learn to sit quietly side by side, a united front even when they're drinking water without any whiskey cut in.


End file.
